AN ODE, By way of ELEGY, ON The universally lamented Death Of the incomparable M R. DRYDEN.  
Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus  
Tam Chari Capitis? Praecipe lugubres  
Cantus Melpomene—  
Quando ullum inveniam parem?  
Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit.  Horat. lib 1. ode 25. 
By Alexander Oldys.  
LONDON, Printed and Sold by most Booksellers, 1700.   

To my worthy Friend Mr. James Dixon.  
SIR,  
THE many and great obligations, which you have been pleased to lay on me, give me the greatest confusion imaginable, at present, when I consider that I am sueing for a Greater Favour than All, in being the liberty to praefix your Name to these Lines; which, tho' I am sensible they will be Condemned by The Great, yet the shame of that can no way affect you, when I do you the justice to assure the Town, that it is contrary to your knowledge, that you are become my Patron: so your Nicer sense cannot be accountable in the least; for you had no hand in it, and you may plead 
— Quae non fecimus Ipsi  
Vix ea nostra voco—  Nay, you were not Guilty of so much as of the knowledge of This my wicked Intentions; wicked, I mean if it should offend you and my other Friends; who need not Blush for me, Since I have already such a terror upon my Conscience for this Aggression, as is, I think, a punishment, in some measure, Equal to my Crime, and all that I can urge in my defence, is that it was pure Respect to the dear memory of This Great Man, to whom I had the honour to be known, that provoked, or, let me rather say— obliged me to Expose myself on this occasion. I never attempted any thing in this measure for the Public before; and I doubt not that I shall do yet severer penance for it, in the censures of our Awful Wits, which I already fear; but your Judgement is still more dreaded than All, by  
Worthy Sir, Your most obliged, obedient and humble Servant Alexander Oldys.   

AN ODE, On the Death of M R. DRYDEN.  

ON a soft Bank of Camomel I sat,  
Or'shaded by two mournful Yews;  
(Doubtless, it was the will of Fate  
I this retreat should choose)  
Where on delicious Poetry I fed  
Amazing Thoughts chilled all my blood,  
And almost stopped the vital Flood;  
As Dryden's sacred Verse I read.  
Whilst Killing Raptures seized my head,  
I shook, as If I had foreknow'n  
What All-Commanding Fate had done;  
What for our Souv'reign Dryden had designed,  
Till Sleep o'er whelmed my Brain as Sorrow had my mind;  
To think that All the great, even He must die,  
And Here, in Fame alone, have Immortality.  
When, in my dream The Fatal Muse  
With Hair dishevelled and in tears,  
Melpomene appears  
Upon my Throbbing heart her hand she laid.  
Her hand as Cold as Death; and thus she said,  
Lest of my Care, be calmed! No more Just Heaven accuse!   

II.  
Eternal Fate has said:— He must Remove;  
The Bards Triumphant wait for him Above.  
To Everlasting Day and Blessed Abodes  
(The seats of Poets and of Gods)  
He's gone, to fill the Throne  
Which None could fill but He Alone;  
The Glorious Throne for Him prepared;  
Of Glorious Acts The Glorious, Just Reward.  
See, see, As He Ascends on high,  
The sacred Bards attending in the Sky!  
So low do they Descend  
To meet Their Now Immortal Friend!  
Immortal There Above and Here Below,  
As long as Men shall Wit and English know  
Th' unequalled Dryden must be so,  
Immortal in his Verse, in Verse unequalled too.  
She said,— Then disappeared; when I  
Could plainly see all that was done on High.   

III.  
I saw Above an universal Joy,  
Perfect, without alloy;  
(so Great as ne'er till then had been,  
Since the sweet Waller Entered in)  
When all that sacred Company,  
Brought the triumphant Bard from Ours to Heaven's great Jubilee.  
That was the occasion of his Happiness,  
And of our Sorrows (surely) that the Cause,  
Called hence heavens Monarches praise to help express  
And to receive for that his Own deserved applause.  
There wanted still one in the Heavenly Choir,  
Dryden Alone was their Desire,  
Whom for the sacred song th' Almighty did Inspire.  
'Twas Pity to Us that so long delayed  
His Blessed Translation to Eternal Light;  
Or, otherwise may we not be Afraid  
'Twas for the sins of some who durst presume to Write?  
Who durst in Verse, in Sacred Poetry,  
Even heavens own design belly,  
And damn themselves with utmost Industry!  
For This may we not dread  
The mighty Prophet's taken from our head?  
And though the fate of these I fear,  
I in Respect must venture here.  
A Long and Racking War was sent,  
Of Common Sins, a Common Punishment;  
To the unthinking Crowd the only Curse;  
Who feel no Loss but in their Purse:  
But (Ah!) what Loss can now be worse?  
The Mighty Pan has left our mournful shore;  
The Mighty Pan is Gone, Dryden is Here no more.   

iv  
When to the Blessed, Bright Region he was come,  
The Vulgar Angels Gazed, and made him room:  
Each Laureate Monarch welcome's him on high,  
And to Embrace him all together fly:  
Then straight the Happy Guest is shown  
To his Bright and Lofty Throne,  
Inferior there to None.  
A Crown beset with little Suns, whose Rays  
Shoot forth in foliages resembling Bays,  
Now on his Head they place:  
Then round him all the Sacred Band  
Loudly Congratulating stand:  
When, after Silence made,  
Thus the Sweetest Waller said  
Well haste Thou merited, Triumphant Bard!  
For, once I knew Thee Militant Below,  
When I myself was so;  
Dangerous thy Post, the Combat Fierce and Hard,  
Ignorance and Rebellion still Thy Foe  
But for those little pains see now the Great Reward!  
Mack-Fleeknoe and Achitophel  
Can now no more disturb thy peace,  
Thy Labours past, thy Endless joys increase,  
The more Thou hast endured the more Thou dost Excel.  
And for the Laurels snatch ' from Thee Below  
Thou wear'st an Everlasting Crown upon thy Hallowed Brow.   

V  
The Bard who next the Newborn saint Addressed  
Was Milton, for his Wondrous Poem Blest;  
Who strangely found, in his Lost Par'dise, Rest.  
Great Bard (said he) 'twas Verse alone  
Did for my Hideous Crime atone,  
Defending once the worst Rebellion.  
A Double share of Bliss belongs to Thee,  
For thy Rich Verse and thy firm Loyalty,  
Some of my Harsh, and Uncouth Points do owe  
To Thee a Tuneful Cadance still Below.  
Thine was, Indeed, The State of Innocence,  
Mine of offence,  
With studied Treason and self-intrest stained;  
Till Par'dise Lost wrought Paradise Regained.  
He said:— When thus our English Abraham,  
(In Heaven the second of that Name,  
Cowley as Glorious there as Sacred here in Fame,)  
Welcome, Aleides, to this Happy Place!  
Our Wish, and our Long Expectation here,  
Makes thee to us more Dear;  
Thou great destroyer of that Monstrous Race,  
Which our sad, former seat did Harrass and Disgrace,  
Be Blest and Welcomed with our Praise,  
Thy Great, Herculean Labours done,  
And all the Courses of thy Zodiac run;  
Shine here to us a more Illustrious Sun!  
But see! Thy Brethren Gods in Poetry,  
The whole Great Race Divine,  
Ready in thy Applause to join,  
Who will Supply what is Defect in me.   

(6)  
Rochester once on Earth a Prodigy,  
A happy Convert now on High,  
Here gins his Wondrous Lays,  
In the Sainted Poet's Praise.  
Fathomless Buckingham, smooth Orrery,  
The Witty D' Avenant, Denham, Suckling too,  
Shakespeare, Nature's Kneller, who  
Nature's Picture likest drew,  
Each in their turn his Praise pursue.  
His Song Elab'rate Johnson next does try,  
On Earth unused to Elegy:  
Beaument and Fletcher Sing together still,  
And with their Tuneful Notes the Arched Palace fill:  
The Noble Patron Poet now does try,  
His Wondrous Spenser to outvie:  
Drayton did next our Sacred Bard Address,  
And Sung Above with wonderful success.  
Our English Ennius, He who gave,  
To The Great Bard kind welcome to his Grave,  
Chaucer, the mighti'st Bard of yor'e,  
Whose Verse could Mirth, to saddest Souls restore,  
Caressed him next whilst his delighted Eye,  
Expressed his Love, and thus his Tongue his Joy,  
Was I, when erst Below (said he)  
In hopes so Great a Bard to see:  
As Thou my Son, Adopted into me,  
And all this Godlike Race, some equal even to Thee!  
O! 'tis enough.— Here soft Orinda came,  
And Sprightly Afra, Muses Both on Earth;  
Both Burned here with a Bright Poetic flame,  
Which to their happiness above gave birth;  
Their Charming Songs, his entertainment close,  
The mighty Bard then smiling, Bowed and ' rose.   

(7)  
Straight from his head, each takes his Laureled Crown,  
And on the Golden Paument casts it down:  
All prostrate fall, before Heaven's High Imperial Throne;  
When the New Saint gins his song Alone:  
Won'drous even there, It was Confessed,  
Scarce to be Equalled by the Rest:  
Herbert nor Crashaw, though on earth Divine,  
So sweetly could their Numbers Join!  
When (Lo!) the Light of twenty thousands Suns,  
All in one Body, shining All at once,  
Darts from Th' Imperial to this Lower Court;  
A Light which They but hardly could support!  
Then the Great Anthem was begun.  
Which all the Hallowd Bards together sing;  
And by no Choir of angels is out done,  
But by The Great Seraphic Choir Alone,  
That day and night surround The Awful Throne  
Of Heavens Eternal King:  
Even They Themselves did the Great Chorus fill,  
And brought the Grateful sounds to heavens High Holy'st Hill.   

(8)  
My Soul shook with the Sacred Harmony,  
Which soon alarmed my heart;  
I fancied I was falling from on High  
And wakened with a start;  
Waked (said I?) surely no; I did not sleep;  
Can they be Dreams which such Impressions make?  
My soul does still the Blessed Ideas keep;  
And still (methinks,) I see 'em though Awake!  
The other thrones too, which, though vacant, shone  
With Greater Glory than the sun,  
Come fresh into my mind;  
Which once will lose their lustre by their Bards outdon.  
When filled with those for whom they are designed;  
Upon their fronts I saw the glittering names,  
All written in Celestial flames.  
For Dorset what a Palace did I see!  
For Montague! And what for Normanby!  
What Glories wait for Wycheryl!  
For Congreve, Southern, Tate, Garth, Addison?  
For Stepney, Prior and for Dennis too;  
What Thrones are void, what Joys prepared and due?  
The Pleasant Dear Companion Cheek  
(Whom all the Great although at Midnight, seek)  
His Glorious wreath must wear and endless Joys pursue.  
And for Motteux, my Gallic Friend,  
The like Triumphant Laurels wait;  
Tho Heaven, I hope, will send it very late,  
E'er ' They or He to their Blessed Seats ascend.  
'tis in Their Verse, next His, that He must Live;  
Next His, Their Lines Eternal Fame can give,  
Then all the Happiness on Earth I know  
Is, that such Godlike Men as they are with us still below.   
FINIS.